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Channel: the wild and wily ways of a brunette bombshell
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"Don't you get it? She's the
house! She's the plain white
shutters, the sparkling glass
windows, and the perfect white
picket fence. She's the ordinary
stuff. But you...you're the red
door. And when people come
by, yeah, sure they see the
house. But for some reason, they
always end up looking at the
door. It's always in the corner of
their eye. You can't ignore a red
door. And the house is nice, hell,
the house is perfect. But then
there's that door. It's almost
painful to look at. You're the
door."

Chuck Palahniuk

snowy New York.

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i've been sick for nearly a week with the stomach bug that's going round and have barely left the apartment, but for the really necessary things.

waking this morning to an absolutely white carroll gardens was such a treat--for all the fuss about the snowstorm a month ago, it's been a pretty snowless winter here in new york and this texan really loves a white winter. i took a twenty minute walk as the snow pummeled down (and then promptly had to take a three hour nap), but it was totally worth it. something about a blanket of fresh snow that makes it feel as though the world is taking a deep breath and so i can too.

i hope everyone has a happy (and healthy) weekend.

(and that spring is just around the corner).

xo,
meg

my favorite part of the night.

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the way you took my hand in yours, just below the table. and how nobody else knew. heaven was that moment.





















mostly.

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i mostly just want a life of slow-dancing in the kitchen.

and that's not too much to ask. is it?

WHAT I'M LISTENING TO// the milk carton kids

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he wrote this song, Charlie, as a letter to his future daughter.
swoon. 

his fault.

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i blamed him entirely.

it was meant to be just a glass of wine. a good story. and a goodnight.

when we met we kissed cheeks once in greeting and i pulled away to sit down, but he pulled me back. kissed the other side, said that's how it was done where he came from.

and i was charmed by this.

we sat on opposite ends of a very large booth.

and i can remember almost nothing we spoke of. only that he moved closer, pulled me towards him.

how his knee touched my knee. and how i was surprised by this. surprised by my own delight.

how his hand reached for my hand. and it was...delicious.

and when our mouths finally met, it was one silent of course after another.

how our first night together he turned to me, still half-alseep and asked if i wanted to hug, the sounds of those words all sloshy in his mouth.

and i nodded, let him pull me close, knowing that hug was entirely the wrong word.

but i was nuts about him for that word alone. because i knew what he meant and i liked what he meant and hell, if he wasn't a man who made every bit of my body go soft with wanting.

and i blamed him entirely.


lessons in dating.

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this last time i saw Tom he asked me to enumerate the many things i had learned from my-last-failed-attempt-at-romance/my-last-failed-attempt-at-a-relationship/last-failed-attempt-at-a-foray-into-modern-day-dating (which is really modern-day-texting).

in smart-ass-fashion i replied,

even if when i do everything you tell me to, it doesn't always work. which means sometimes even the extreme rationale of Tom is not match for the blustery-winds of romance. damningly capricious romance. (which says more about the blustery-winds of capricious romance than it does about Tom. this alone makes me want to give up on it altogether and hide under my covers only to emerge when pre-arranged marriages have come back into fashion).

Tom is my life-spirit-guide.

which means Tom is also my relationship and romance and love spirit-guide.

he is not, however, my modern-day-texting spirit guide, but only because Tom does not approve of modern-day-texting-as-a-relationship. (point of fact, Tom has made it clear that he is very thankful to have just-missed-the-modern-day-texting that now serves as both relationship initiation and bedrock).

this is depressing on many levels because Tom is all of like three years older than me--or some ridiculously small number (which is depressing enough, usually, without the added insult of having just missed missing modern-day-texting).

cruel twist of fate and time.

after managing to smooth out my smirk i gave Tom's questions some actual thought. (which to remind you, because i got so far off topic, was about what i had learned from this last romantic venture).

well, i mostly learned things i already knew. but had to be reminded of. and will have to be reminded of again and again, i'm sure.

1. never trust what a man says on the first date. many men will say a lot of things to get one particular thing...sneaky creatures, these men. 

2. my girl crazy can accelerate from totally sane to frighteningly unintelligible in an disproportionately short amount of time. 

and i mostly have my head on my shoulders. and yet. and still. 

i once said to Tom that i'd need to end up with a man like him. and no, this is not the story of a girl falling in love with her therapist. rather it's that...i go to see him and my feet are ten feet off the ground and he's so gosh dam rational and honest and direct that i leave and my feet are suddenly on solid ground. he's ever so gently reached up and pulled me down. and i'm gonna need a life-partner who understands that i can over-think myself into or out-of any of many (many, many) ridiculous scenarios. and i just need a gentle tug on the hand. solid ground.

so, regarding this last attempt at affection-taking-flight, i felt sane. i felt good. i had my wits about me. and i could sense when the girl-crazy reared its head and i'd give it a sort of sideways look and put it away. but it kept coming back and eventually it won out. and i was aware of what was happening. unable to stop it, but aware nonetheless. and awareness is the first bit on the road to something else, no?

what i realized this go round is this...

and this is the tough bit.

i have the best girlfriends in the world. i really, really do. but i absolutely cannot talk to them all about men (some of them, not all). we girls love to gab, don't we? and nothing is more exciting, more intoxicating than rehashing every last bit of last night's romance.

but here's the thing (and i concede this might be particular to my circle, but i have a suspicion that's it's slightly more universal), unless the girl i'm speaking to is in a solid, steady, long-term, not-on-the-rocks-relationship, it is not to be discussed. I REPEAT, NOT TO BE DISCUSSED. because those girls in the solid, steady, long-term, not-on-the-rocks relationships listen and actually hear what you're saying and can offer counsel.

otherwise, the girlfriend listening is dissecting her own tumultuous this-week-tryst as she listens. she then attempts to speak to you through her own distorted lens about her own situation, all the while saying its not about her. but it is about her.

i've also learned the hard way that when i'm pretty nuts about a guy my girlfriends will have none of him and when i'm absolutely-out-of-my-mind-bored-by-someone they think he's the cat's pajamas.

Tom says this all happens because as woman we're expected to play certain roles. and that gossip and all this girl chat provides a certain purpose and there is science for all this and yada, yada, yada.

which is to say, Tom agreed. discussing fledgling romantic relationships with my girlfriends is not good. it encourages the girl crazy. and then accelerates it.

and finally,

3. i have to go just as far as i need to go in pursuit of a man (which is to say i always end up texting long after some of my friends are like, meg, it is his turn). i can't follow anyone else's rules or guidelines--i have to honor what i think is best. and then i have to sort of throw up my hands and trust that the winds of change and fate and a little bit of luck will either come out in favor of the thing or not. and if not, it is not a reflection on me or my worth. (IN OTHER WORDS, I CAN'T TAKE IT ALL SO SERIOUSLY, OR PERSONALLY--which is--yes, you guessed it--sort of, quite a bit, hard for me).  



have i ever told you how very much in a sea of married and coupled-up bloggers i hate being single? but it does put me in a unique position to offer up dating advice for anyone reading who is not married or in one of those long-sought-after long-term relationships. and someone's got to do it.




also (BRILLIANT):





eerily-on-point-posts from years long gone
 (suggesting i'm slow to learn, or slow to put into practice):





... *and some housekeeping*

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"There is a season for wildness and a season for settledness and this is neither. This season is about becoming."

Shauna Niequist


(found this photo from about a month ago in a dropbox folder that my brother and his friends keep to share and keep track of their adventures {and indiscretions}. i love it. it's imperfect and it tells a sliver of a very clear story.  my favorite photos are always the ones in which it's not about pretty and perfect, but happy--totally, unconditionally happy as caught on film).

if things are a bit more quiet than usual around these parts (and if i'm taking even longer than my usual forever to respond to emails) it's because i'm trying to move this blog to a new platform and with no formal training and a real job that takes up real time, trying to do that takes all of my free time. but hopefully in the next week i'll have a glittery new site (or at least the start of one).

hope all is well and the week is off to a good start (no saint patty's day hangovers!!).


MY NEW YORK + ROUND THESE PARTS

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there's not too much to report on this end. life has been... a little unclear and a little uneasy and quite a bit of leaning into the unknown. 

but okay. 

life has been okay--both because of and despite all those many murky things. 

though i must admit  i do believe the winter blues stole upon me these last few weeks and i can feel my body craving spring, calling out for the green that heralds the season. i love my neighborhood always, but never quite so much as when it is flush with green and the birds sing that morning song. 

dear husband-to-be,

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i think,

what i'm going to have to ask from you,

what i'll need...

is for you to be even more courageous than you think you have any right to be.



and me too.
i'll be that too.

on how to be happy.

this is just to say.

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last night, in the throws of wooing, a man i'd just met called me charming.

which was so much better than being called beautiful.

MY NEW YORK + ROUND THESE PARTS

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as spring hurtles forward, fending off the last of winter's advances (and winter is putting up one heck of a fight this year) i can feel things easing just a bit. 

spring signals many things: change and good tidings and a renewed faith in what might be. 

and standing on the edge of all-these-many-good-things has me taking stock of the life lessons of this last particular season. 

timing is different than patience. that's what i'm learning now.

patience sees me on my knees praying to an unyielding and unkind higher power. but timing is the good grace of God casting me into the world and telling me to live life just as well as i can. 

the rest will follow.  

in bed last night, inches from sleep, i began to sob--big and heavy, chest-heaving-sort-of-sobs that i rarely, if ever, experience. and in that moment all i could think was what's happening? what is this feeling? and just like that, a thought: this is gratitude. gratitude manifesting itself in the most unusual form yes, but gratitude nonetheless--gratitude that life is exactly as it is. gratitude for each and every last hardship i bear. and thanks that the very things i want to curse might yet prove the foundation of so much good still to come.

gratitude that spring is coming. and that i know so many exceptional people. thanks that, when the weather begins to turn, new york likes to show off her plume. gratitude for morning lattes and live music and a lens through which to see the world. 

and this unexpected extra time in which to be young. and to make all the many mistakes that turn youth to something else.

the natural progression of life. 

how winter always turns to spring. 



(that last photo is by the unparalleled emma hartvig).

ON HOW TO BE HAPPY//

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"I am a forest, and a night of dark trees:
but he who is not afraid of my darkness,
will find my banks full of roses under my cypresses."

Nietzsche

ON PASSING FUNKS AND SPILT COFFEE.

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Mostly I don't know how it happens.

How a passing funk just passes.

But it does.

I think it has something to do with the weather.

And a visiting girlfriend who is so damn smart that you watch her and think yes--that is a game I'd like to play and suddenly, over the course of a day, your vocabulary is elevated and you find your mind is pliable--hell, it likes to be stretched.

And I think it has to do with reading books in which the heroine is ballsy and adventurous and unyielding in her desire to just live. life. better. (which really means living. life. fuller).

I think it has to do with live music. And good food. And nights out. And rooftop bars. And making eyes with good looking men.

And it passes.

Mostly, it probably has to do with the passing of time. And just seeing it out.

Yesterday I woke early. Showered. Put on makeup. Dressed myself in some of my better clothes. I was meeting one of my dearest friends at Vera Wang so that she might try on wedding dresses. And I thought: when one goes to Vera Wang, one must dress for the occasion.

And as I headed to the subway, coffee in hand, I caught a glimpse of my reflection and thought, not so bad today. not. so. bad.

It was at Broadway-Lafayette, transferring to the 6 train, that disaster struck. The train was already in the station as I got off the escalator and I rushed around the corner to beat the closing doors. I stuck my elbow in such a way as to prop the doors open. It was a smooth move--I felt good about it. The doors would open all the way, I'd walk in, they'd close, and that'd be that.

But they didn't open all the way. And this caught me off guard.

Have you ever seen someone's coffee shoot three feet into the air (not the cup, just the coffee)? Well...let me tell you, it's something to behold. It happens when they squeeze the coffee cup and the lid shoots off and...think of trying to crush a beer can--that's sort of what happened to my cardboard cup.

Except that there was no trying. It simply happened.

The coffee wasn't hot. So at least there was that. But some of it landed on a man (though not much, and he was wearing a black coat, so... small miracles). Most of it landed on the floor. And on me.

Sticky hands.

I was so embarrassed I got off at the next station and waited for the next train--which is what I should have done in the first place. YES. I SEE THE IRONY IN THAT.

New York has a way of putting you in your place. The moment you get too comfortable or too cocky the 6 train comes along and absolutely schools you. Or you run into that person you never wanted to see again and you think, blerg, this city is too small.

This is all to say, I walked into Vera Wang reeking of spilt coffee and with a trench missing a button (I'd like to blame the button on the train debacle, but I've needed to sew that button on for months now, which makes it all the more embarrassing--I can hear my mother rolling her eyes all the way from Texas). But it's so who I am--mostly smoke and mirrors where looking-pulled-together is concerned. Let's be honest, I'm the gal that'll don fake-eyelashes and worry that when at the end of the night the man kisses me they'll come right off, right on his cheek (it has yet to happen, but it's just a matter of time). In fact I'm waiting to see that scene in some rom-com (intellectual property claim).

Today Joy and I are off to Monique Lhuillier. And I'm hoping to walk in with a little more grace. I'm sipping my coffee now, and will wait for the 6, if need be.


It didn't get any better.

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I really did intend for yesterday to be better.

The best of intentions...

Wedding-day-dress-shopping-day-two. No need to dress quite so fancy. I'd wear flats, loafers. I'd don makeup and a pair of pedal-pushers (Remember that term? Let's bring it back, shall we?), but I'd be comfortable. Myself.

I wouldn't overreach.

And so there was to be no incident.

I got on the F train. Decided not to transfer to the 6. I'd ride it as far as I could in Manhattan and then just walk a bit.


But I was a little late.

And the train ride was so long. And there was a little anxiety--I started to have a little anxiety. About everything and nothing. And all I could think was, I'm gonna need a good cry today.

And some months it's hormones, you know? Some months even I'm floored that as the hormones surge, emotions go amok.

I got off at 63rd and Lex.

Let it be known that I hate the Upper East Side. I just do. And the station there at 63rd is like four full flights of (long) stairs underground--by the time I made it to the street I was more than a little out of breath.

So I decided to hail a cab--I thrust my arm into the air and took off to the corner. At which point I collided with a woman who was walking forward as she looked behind her. It was both of our faults. But because of the physics of how we were moving and something, she remained upright, while I went absolutely flying. I mean...even I was shocked by the force with which I hit the ground. She helped me up at which point she made some comment about that's what happens when two people aren't looking--making sure to include herself, but...I was already on the mat. Actually and metaphorically and I didn't need a lecture.

I climbed into the cab. A little bit humilited and a little bit shaken--a tear in my pedal pushers. And that's when I had a panic attack. Trying not to cry, and trying desperately to get some air to my lungs, and the cab driver...bless him, was just. out of his. depth.

Don't cry, don't cry, you make me cry.

I crawled out of the cab at the bridal salon and into the arms of my friend Joy. She couldn't tell if I was crying or laughing--and to her credit, both were happening: messily and all at once.

Some weeks you just can't win.

Spilt coffee, cut knees. A whole lotta mess.

Some weeks New York is just too hard.

the next bit of the story.

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Today is my father's last day of work. 

31 years at the same company. 

Today he "retires"...whatever that means, which I'm not sure any of us know beyond him not going into work every day. 

It's a big deal.

My dad's a big deal.

And I'm really proud of him. 

Because I think, he thinks, we don't get just how hard he worked and just how much he sacrificed and how much it cost so that each person in our family could do and be anything

And you know, I'll probably never fully get it. 

But the reason I want--with every bone in my body--to one day make my father as absolutely proud as I can, is because he worked tirelessly so that the word possibility might always have and "endless" before it. 

And I can't think of a more meaningful gift for a parent to give his child. 

MY NEW YORK | the one in which i can't get over how much i like fort greene, brooklyn

the truest thing i've ever written.

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when i was nineteen years old and home on christmas break i awoke from a dream, and upon doing so, scribbled down the following words:



it remains the truest thing i've ever written.

ironic because friends was entirely the wrong word.

i still have that slip of paper, despite having long since moved on from the man.

but not the notion. i certainly hope i'll never move on from the notion.


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